Passion Untamed (15 page)

The touch of wry humor in her voice surprised him.

Delaney’s eyes lit. “So you don’t fly around on a broomstick?”

To his amazement, an answering smile twitched at the corners of Skye’s mouth. “No broomsticks. Unfortunately, no flying. I
wish
I could fly.”

“Me, too. What about that…” Delaney lifted her finger to the end of her nose and wiggled it.

The small burst of laughter, sweet and genuine, that erupted from Skye’s throat almost seemed to startle her as much as it did Paenther.

“Bewitched!”
The delight in Skye’s eyes entranced him. “I loved that show when I was a little girl. The way Samantha could make things appear and disappear with the click of her fingers or a wiggle of her nose. Even Tabitha could do it!”

“Oh my God, did you ever see the episode where Tabitha…”

As the smell of cinnamon rolls began to fill the dining room, Paenther met Tighe’s gaze as the two women talked about a television show he’d never seen, nor had ever cared to. Tighe was looking decidedly unhappy with the enthusiasm with which his mate was embracing the conversation with the witch. His friend’s wary gaze turned back to Skye and stayed, like a man prepared to defend his mate against a wild and dangerous beast.

As much as he hated that Skye had to endure the constant distrust, he couldn’t blame Tighe. Few Therians ever found a mate worth binding themselves to for an eternity. None of the other
current Ferals ever had except those chosen as the mates of the Radiants. Lyon for Kara and Wulfe for the now-deceased Beatrice. While Lyon seemed happy with the choice, Wulfe never had even though those pairings were supposed to be as perfect as any pairings ever made.

Now there was Tighe.

Paenther shook his head, watching the play of possessiveness, unable to fathom caring so deeply about one woman that he would be willing to forsake all others for eternity. But as his gaze turned back to Skye, to the fragile pleasure lighting her face as she talked about the old television show, he could…almost…understand. Every now and then, a woman had a way of changing everything.

Her eyes positively danced as she leaned forward, deeply engrossed in her discussion with Delaney, a self-deprecating smile lifting her lips.

“I used to complain bitterly to my mother about the unfairness of being a real witch and not being able to do any of those cool things.”

Delaney watched her intently, her smile bemused. “You can’t do
any
of those things? Then what can you do?” Her gaze rounded on Tighe. “There has to be a reason everyone’s so afraid of you.”

The delight slowly drained from Skye’s expression. “The Mage I grew up with could do little more than simple spells and charms, lighting lightwicks…” Her hand lifted and twirled in the air. “Floating candles, basically. And increasing
the yield of the garden or healing minor sickness. Some had other gifts, the gift of foresight or the ability to read another’s mind. None of those was any real danger to the Therians except for the ability to enchant and capture the mind of another with the touch of a hand. A dangerous trick since the victim can be stolen away without effort and made to do anything the captor wishes. But not all Mage possess that ability. I never have.”

Paenther stilled. “You captured me.”

She met his gaze with a lift of her brow, a decidedly impudent twist to her mouth. “I did.” Even as she held his gaze, color began to stain her cheeks. “But it took considerably more than a touch.”

The memory of just how she’d captured him, of how he’d slid inside her, had his blood heating all over again.

“I hadn’t heard this part,” Tighe said, his voice a low rumble. “By the look passing between you, I take it she…uh…opened your mind for you?”

“She did.”

“Without enchanting you first?”

“She hid her Mage eyes, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not like you to get distracted by a female.”

Paenther knew that all too well. And yet…As Skye looked up at him, as their gazes met, he felt her reach deep inside him and stroke that tight knot in his chest. “I hadn’t met
this
female,” he said softly.

The soft smile that curved her lips had him longing to reach for her, to stroke her face and bury his
nose into the curve of her neck, immersing himself in her scent.

Tighe growled low. “Did you ever consider that she’s enchanted you?”

“Of course she’s enchanted him,” Jag snarled from the other end of the table. “She’s been fucking with my animal since she got here. All fucking night!”

Paenther turned, slowly, meeting the hard anger in the other Feral’s eyes. It had been a mistake to bring her into the dining room. But he’d be damned if he was going to steal her away before she’d had a chance to eat. She deserved better than that.

“What in the hell is
she
doing here?” Lyon stood in the doorway, Kara at his side.

Paenther groaned, then rose to greet his chief. But Lyon didn’t move forward. Instead, he pushed Kara behind him as if protecting her.

Paenther’s jaw clenched. “She needs to eat.”

“She’s not even tied.”

“I thought the Shaman bound her magic,” Delaney said evenly.

“We have no way of knowing if it was effective.”

Jag snarled. “I can tell you right now, Chief, it wasn’t.
She’s fucking with my animal!
” Jag began to light as if he were…
shifting
.

Chaos erupted as the sleek jaguar materialized in Jag’s chair. The chair crashed backward as the animal twisted and leaped to the floor.

“What the hell?” Lyon demanded.

It’s her!
Jag’s angry voice rang in Paenther’s head
as he was sure it did in all the Ferals’. A shifted Feral was able to speak telepathically with whomever he chose as long as that person was relatively close by.
I didn’t intend to shift. I felt her pulling on me, and suddenly it was happening.

The cat came around the table slowly, his walk stealthy. Deadly.
I’m going to rip that bitch’s throat out
.

Paenther shoved back his chair and stood, Skye at his back. “Like hell you are. It’s not her fault, Jag.”

No? She works her magic, and it’s not her fault? Who’s to blame, then? Lyon? Kara? Maybe Santa Claus?

Jag’s muscles bunched to spring.

“I can’t shift,” Paenther told Tighe even as he grabbed Skye from her chair and pushed her against the wall, shielding her with his body.

“I can.” In a flash of lights and striped fur, Tighe shifted into his tiger and leaped at the same moment the jaguar did, colliding in midair, right over the table. The pair crashed on top of the platters of food, sending dishes, crystal pitchers, and silverware crashing to the floor.

Paenther pulled Skye to the other side of the room as the two big cats fought in a way strictly forbidden by the code of the Ferals.

“Jag, shift. Now!” Lyon ordered.

But the jaguar’s only reply was a furious growl as he sank his fangs in the tiger’s shoulder and was batted back by a huge, powerful paw.

Lyon turned on Paenther. “Get her out of here, or I’m going to kill her myself!”

Paenther snarled, pulling Skye hard against him, but he couldn’t argue. Whether she was doing this on purpose or not, the result was the same.

“The Prisons, B.P.,” Lyon yelled, as Paenther pulled Skye from the room. “I don’t want her anywhere near the others.”

In the hallway outside the dining room, Paenther grasped Skye’s trembling hand and saw the fear in her eyes. A fear that echoed deep in his soul. Because whether she was doing it intentionally or through the cantric embedded in her heart, he could not allow her to endanger his friends.

As he led her down the long stairs to the prisons below, he felt his choices narrowing to a dismal few. In a terrible twist of irony, he’d found that rarest of creatures, a kind and gentle witch. Yet thanks to the treachery of her own kind, she was still dangerous.

And a dangerous witch, caught in the Ferals’ trap, had only one kind of future. Bleak.

Skye turned to face Paenther as they reached the prison deep below the house. She was shaking, her stomach tight with misery after what had happened in the dining room. The jaguar inside Jag had been acting increasingly desperate to reach her. Not drawn to her. Not leaping to greet her as the panther was. He’d almost been acting as if he were being pulled against his will, turning him angry. Viciously so.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Paenther looked down at her, his mouth hard, his eyes grim. “I didn’t say you did.”

“But you have to think I was responsible.”

“I don’t think it’s you but your cantric that’s to blame.”

“Why? I mean, why would Birik load a spell
into my cantric that would drive a Feral crazy? He couldn’t have expected me to free you, let alone be kidnapped by you in return. It doesn’t make any sense.”

He opened the door of a cell across from where she’d stayed…and bled…at midnight. Someone had cleaned up the blood.

He ushered her inside, then followed her. There was a wooden bench in this one, and she sat on it as Paenther stood beside the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his body still. No expression crossed his face.

“It might not make any sense, but the only alternative I can see is that you’re doing these things intentionally.”

“I’m not.”

He watched her closely. “I believe you.”

She closed her eyes, absorbing the sound of those words.

“But that means it’s the cantric.” He moved, coming to sit beside her on the bench. “Or something else we haven’t thought of.”

As he stretched his long legs out in front of him, she turned to him. “What are you going to do, Paenther?”

He turned to meet her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“With me?” She knew her survival was at stake. She
knew
it. And knew he did, too. “I want to help you stop Birik. More than anything in the world, I want that. But I don’t know how.”

He reached for her, hooking his arm around her
shoulder as he pulled her against him. “I know. I don’t know how, either.”

“You can’t let me go for fear Birik will catch me and use me to free more of those things. But Lyon won’t let me stay here, will he? Not when I’m causing so much distress to your animals.”

“Maybe your staying down here is enough for now. We’ll figure out something, Beauty.”

With a gentle squeeze, he released her, then stood and turned to look down at her. “Stay here. I’m going to get you some food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He cupped her face with hand. “I’ll be right back.” Then he locked her in and disappeared down the long passage, leaving her alone and trembling.

For all her adult life she’d longed for kindness. For goodness in another. She’d finally found it and fallen head over heels in love with a good man.

But love was never enough.

Paenther strode through the underground of the house, hating that he had nothing more to offer Skye than platitudes. Lies. Words of hope, some called them.

Hope was good, of course. Vhyper’s words, repeated every day of their incarceration three centuries ago, had kept him sane, kept him believing he’d make it.
“We are going to get out of this, we three. Together. Do not doubt it. Do not ever doubt it.”

The words had turned out to be a lie for Frederick, the third of their group. He’d died in that
dungeon, bleeding to death from a wound Ancreta had inflicted on him just for the fun of it. She’d cut off his foot to see how long it would take to grow back. It hadn’t.

The three of them hadn’t gotten out of there together. Frederick had never become the jaguar Feral he was marked to be. It was nearly two years later that Jag had finally dragged his surly ass into Feral House and set about turning every Feral against him. They’d thought he’d never show up. To this day, nearly three centuries later, most wished he hadn’t.

Frederick, with his quiet strength and dry wit, would have rounded out their team well, but he’d never gotten the chance, despite Vhyper’s words of hope.

But sometimes words were all you had.

As he reached the main floor, he saw Lyon at the front door greeting three strangers, two men and a woman. The chief’s gaze swung to Paenther, and he motioned him over.

“The Guard, B.P.”

The Guard hailed mainly from Europe, trained in the British Isles, and were known to be fierce fighters. He was interested to see the leader of this team seemed to be the woman, a petite female in a trim pantsuit and high heels with flaming shoulder-length red hair.

Paenther shook hands with each of the three. The men both spoke with English accents, but the woman, Olivia, possessed a hint of a Scottish brogue.

As Lyon turned to usher them into the parlor, Jag came storming into the foyer. “That witch has to go! I feel like I’ve got her magic crawling all over me,” he growled, then stopped short as he saw the visitors. His gaze zeroed in on Olivia, his gaze raking her from head to toe and back again. “You’ll do.”

“Jag…” Lyon warned, but the surly warrior slid his arm around the redhead’s shoulders. “How about you come upstairs and spread your legs for me, Sugar,” he drawled.

“How about I don’t.” The words purred from her mouth, but her eyes had turned hard as steel.

Jag didn’t seem to notice. His hand dropped from her shoulder to grasp her breast. “I’ll be good.”

“I’m sure,” she murmured as she lifted one of her high spiked heels and drove it down hard on his instep.

“Fuck!” Jag leaped back, lifting his injured foot. The look he turned on the woman was pure venom.

Olivia turned so that she could keep Jag in her sights, but glanced at Lyon and lifted one well-arched brow. “As you were saying?”

Paenther struggled to keep a straight face.

“Did I just see what I thought I saw?” Tighe said coming up behind him.

“You did.”

Lyon eyed the woman with a bemused look. “I was saying I appreciate your willingness to help. I’ll be pairing your warriors with mine, allowing my team to cover more ground.”

The redhead gave a decisive nod, glancing at Jag, then back at Lyon. “We’ll be ready. As many of us as you need.”

“You’re one of the fighters, then?” Lyon asked.

“Of course. Do not let my size fool you, warrior. Many have done so to their regret.”

Admiration lit Lyon’s eyes, and a hint of amusement as he glanced at Jag. “I don’t doubt that. I’ll be happy for your help. All of you,” he said, his words encompassing the other two men.

Tighe chuckled low and glanced at Paenther. “Think Lyon will pair her with Jag? She could sure teach him some manners.”

Paenther grunted. “A hundred bucks on the redhead.”

Jag glared at the pair of them, growling. All of a sudden his skin began to sparkle with lights. The next moment, a furious jaguar prowled the parlor.

Fuck!
Jag’s yell roared through Paenther’s head.

Lyon scowled and glared at Paenther. “See to your witch.”

Paenther nodded and left the room. Tighe accompanied him back to the kitchen, where he was determined to find Skye some food.

“Hawke called while you were downstairs. They’re on their way back.”

“What happened?”

“They found the farmhouse where we picked you up without any trouble, and Wulfe located your scent. He followed it about four miles, then lost it. They spent all night searching but can’t find anything that looks like a cave.”

“What about the Market?” They turned the corner into the dining room, where Foxx, Kara, and Delaney were helping Pink sweep up the mess. On the sideboard sat a platter of cinnamon rolls still half-full.

“They can’t find it.” Tighe picked up one of the rolls and took a big bite. “Mmm, not bad.”

Paenther grabbed one of the unbroken plates and loaded it with four rolls.

“They were starting to feel disoriented, so Lyon ordered them back here, stat.”

“Magic.”

“Yep. Gotta be.”

“Dammit. I can find my way back in there. I know I can. As soon as I get these damned shackles off.”

“Any word from the Shaman this morning?”

“None. If he doesn’t come up with something soon, I may not have any choice but to cut off one of my hands to see if it works.” He couldn’t shake the memory of Frederick bleeding to death after Ancreta cut off his foot, but Frederick had been two years without radiance. He’d turned mortal, as all newly marked Ferals did if they didn’t find Feral House within a couple of years.

It wouldn’t happen to him. His hand would grow back. He hoped.

Tighe grimaced. “And if it doesn’t work?”

Paenther met his gaze. “If the Mage find a way to free Satanan from that blade, a missing hand is going to be the least of my worries.”

He took the plate and started back down the
stairs to the underground, but as he neared the bottom, a strange sensation began to crawl over his scalp, as if something were dripping into his head and spreading, taking root.

The plate of cinnamon rolls slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor. Voices whispered inside his head on a thick, cold mist as his skin crawled with recognition.

Enthrallment
.

The mist rushed in, and he knew no more.

Skye rested her head back against the wall, trying to make sense of what had happened upstairs. A dull queasiness played in her stomach, a fear that if she didn’t figure out a way to stop whatever it was and convince the Ferals she could be of help to them, she was in serious danger.

Paenther would protect her as long as he could. But if his chief decided she was dangerous, there would be nothing he could do.

It was as if the animals inside the Ferals were both drawn to her and repelled by her. She’d thought it was simply a matter of confusion on the animals’ part by their warriors’ animosity toward her.

Unfortunately, that didn’t explain what had happened to Jag. She’d felt his animal’s pain, in a different way than she’d felt it before. What was worse, Foxx’s, Lyon’s, and Tighe’s animals had all been exhibiting echoes of that same pain that morning. As if something were wrong with them. Her gift should never cause a creature pain. Even
if she wanted to hurt them, she couldn’t. Not when the Shaman had bound her magic.

She stilled. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe the Shaman had changed her gift in some fundamental way. As soon as Paenther returned, she’d ask him.

The sound of footsteps carried to her. Paenther’s footsteps. Her skin heated. Her heart fluttered with anticipation, her chest expanding and filling until the warmth was nearly too much to contain. How had Paenther become her entire world in such a short time?

But as he turned the corner, she sensed something was wrong. His walk was tense. His expression hard. And he’d come without the food he’d promised her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked as he unlocked her cell, his gaze fixed on the task.

“We have to go.”

“Why?” She wiped suddenly damp palms on the pants Paenther had loaned her. Had Lyon already ordered her to be destroyed?

Swinging the door open, glancing back over his shoulder, he reached his hand out to her. She placed her hand in his and followed him through the passage and into the gym.

“Can you tell me what happened, Paenther?” Her heart was beginning to race with fear.

He didn’t reply. When they reached the hallway that led to the stairs, he instead led her to a pair of double doors. Releasing her hand for just a moment, he unlocked the doors and swung
one open only enough for the two of them to slip through, then he closed it behind him.

He grabbed her hand and led her up the wide set of steep stairs. Daylight filtered in from above, lighting their way and glinting off spiderwebs and dust motes.

“Where do these go?” she asked softly. But again, he didn’t answer. “Paenther?”

Her heart lurched. Alarms began to ring in her head. “Paenther, look at me.” She tried to jerk her hand from his grasp and couldn’t. “Look at me!”

Finally, he turned his head, and met her gaze with the eyes of a stranger. Eyes dulled by magic.

He was enthralled.

Birik had come for them.